Monck looked at the lawyer, whose expression wore none of the cunning his words suggested. He leaned towards Humphrey and fixed him in a cold glare. ‘The man was a thief,’ he said. ‘His fatal distemper saves us the bother of hanging him.’
‘Ahhh,’ responded Humphrey, unconvinced. As Monck folded the affidavit up and placed it inside his purse, Humphrey purred: ‘And where shall I send your account, General Monck?’
‘To Potheridge, Mr Humphrey, in Devonshire, whither I now go. I give you good day.’
‘Well good-night, General Monck, good-night,’ Humphreys replied.
And a moment later George Monck was striding happily along the Strand under the brilliant canopy of the stars.
SWORD OF STATE
Book Two: The Tempering
Richard Woodman
Table of Contents
LONDON: March 1652
POTHERIDGE: Summer 1652
THE NORTH SEA: June 1953
LONDON AND POTHERIDGE: October 1653 – April 1654
LONDON AND SCOTLAND: April – June 1654
SCOTLAND: June 1654
SCOTLAND: July – December 1654
DALKEITH: Spring – Summer 1658
Author Note
LONDON
March 1652
Monck pushed the empty platter away from him and took another swig at the tankard of small beer provided by his landlady. It tasted sour in his mouth, adding to the black mood which had dogged him all day and was exacerbated by the rattling shutters which told that outside March was going out like a lion – and a wet one at that. He was angry with himself – furious, in fact – aware that he had drunk excessively last night when dining with Lord Conway. Ned Conway had served with him in Ulster and Monck’s enjoyment of his old colleague’s company had led him to say too much about himself. Now, twenty-four hours later, he chid himself: it was true that he was bored by apparently useless weeks of waiting in London, but that was no excuse for a loose tongue. Always a guarded man, Monck had let slip his caution in the conviviality of the meeting by revealing his intention to abandon his military career and then marry. His only consolation was that Conway went to bed a good deal drunker than Monck himself, for the General had a prodigious capacity for wine, one of the many features of his remarkable character that impressed itself upon his subordinate officers. Moreover, Monck thought, raking over what he could recall of the detail of their conversation, Conway had gone to his bed with the impression that Monck’s intended was the widow of Ned’s uncle, Edward Popham. If that was the case, he had perhaps not compromised himself as much as he thought, though the lady concerned might not think so, should she hear of the impropriety. Well, the milk was spilt now but, had his idle presence in London not hinged on the question of matrimony, Monck would have long ago joined Anne in the old manor-house at Potheridge on the banks of the Torridge in Devon where she patiently awaited his long-delayed return. She had expected him there after he had taken the waters at Bath, seeking a cure for his bad legs but he had instead returned directly to London, unwilling to put her in danger until this whole damnable matter was cleared-up; after all, adultery was a hanging offence and Monck had earned a deep respect for the rule of law.
He emptied the ale-pot, leaned back in his chair and regarded the room in which he was quartered with a jaundiced eye. After his long service in Scotland, ended by a near-fatal attack of the spotted-fever that had apparently wrecked his health, he had hoped to go home to Anne and Potheridge. Instead he was stuck here, in cheap lodgings in Westminster. The twin candles on the small table at which he sat guttered as the gale outside penetrated the room and set the shadows about him dancing on the grubby walls. He had endured far worse quarters during his long years of campaigning, to be sure, often sleeping in the open, wrapped in his cloak.
‘Dunbar,’ he murmured to himself. He had slept in his sodden cloak that night, by Heaven! He recalled the eve of the battle outside the Scottish sea-port with a wry smile, remembering with a quickening of the pulse – for their plight had come perilously close to utter catastrophe – how the English Army’s line of retreat had been cut off by Leslie’s out-numbering Scots. And how Cromwell had chewed his lower lip until it bled! But the Lord General had given John Lambert most of the credit for the victory that had so remarkably turned the tables on Leslie and so dramatically reversed the fortunes of the English Army in Scotland. Not that Cromwell had kept his own achievement out of his despatch, but the young and charming Lambert had been selected for especial praise. Monck’s own part in changing the Army’s fate had been set aside, though Oliver had left him Governor of the northern Nation while he raced off in hot pursuit of Charles Stuart and crushed him at Worcester exactly a year later.
Was that only six months ago? It seemed almost half a lifetime to Monck as he recalled the subsequent agonies of the spotted-fever to which he had succumbed after pacifying most of Scotland. It was not just his legs that had suffered from the disease; it seemed his mind had been affected. His physician, an Edinburgh man engaged by his military secretary, the faithful William Clarke, had seemed to take some delight in explaining to the English commander, that ‘his fever o’erheated his brain which, simmering within the skull might, might, mind ye, have a permanent effect upon Your Excellency’s mental faculties’.
‘In what way?’ Monck had gasped, his eyes swimming in their burning sockets.
Macrae had shrugged his shoulders. ‘I canna tell, sir, but it might reduce one’s deductive powers. There is nae telling.’ The quack had paused, relishing his small triumph over his country’s conqueror. ‘Or it could put ye oot of sorts, induce a moodiness foreign to your nature heretofore. But one canna be certain o’ sich matters and only time will tell and time might – might, mind ye – prove a better healer.’
‘I am reassured,’ Monck had murmured sarcastically from his damp pillow.
‘Broth, sir, guid beef broth, is your best specific.’
Monck had nodded weakly and closed his eyes. Now he thought the lugubrious Scot correct. Here was a moodiness settled upon him that was certainly foreign to him ‘heretofore’. He sighed, then another thought struck him. It was all nonsense; at the root of his black mood was the ancient shadow of a dead man, Nicholas Battyn, whose maledictions followed Monck like a gypsy’s curse. Always some sadness triggered the damnable memory of Battyn and the extreme folly of Monck’s youthful and intemperate outburst. He had narrowly escaped the gallows for his misconduct and felt the beating of Battyn to be his personal, consequential and spiritually fatal original sin. Its memory burned him even at this remove of time, assailing him at low moments, bringing its evil as explanation of every unfortunate circumstance that subsequently impinged upon him; it was as if – illogically, but convincingly – his very being turned upon it. Indeed, he could even persuade himself that King Charles’s failure to take his advice and recruit and train a small effective army before his enemies did just that, rested entirely upon the adolescent misdemeanour of his advisor – George Monck. Had not the King himself raised the matter of Monck’s intemperance when they had walked together in Christchurch garden? It was as though he, George Monck, had begun a chain of events that had led Charles to the scaffold and that the very thing Monck sought more than anything, peace for his country, had in fact been placed entirely beyond accomplishment by his own stupidity! Men who quailed before the severity of the terrible General Monck’s glare could not imagine the tough old soldier’s thoughts running through the dark pursued by such a demon! And oh, how he longed for that peace, both for himself and for his country.
He stirred himself; Macrae had been right: his brain was fried, frizzled and useless. There were men abroad whose sins far eclipsed those of George Monck. Had the King’s cause – or any cause, for that matter – been fatally affected by their peccant actions? Or was the world’s mess a product of it all? A grand combination? He almost laughed to himself. That, at least, was a certainty!
He had said something of the sort to Bishop
Wren two days earlier when, unable to do anything other than await the result of the enquiries he had put in train, Monck had visited the poor man who still lay a prisoner in The Tower. He flattered himself that Wren had been pleased to see his former fellow-prisoner, for he expressed concern that Monck dared show himself there.
‘You will compromise yourself, General, talking to a confirmed Royalist and like to languish until I die for it.’
‘Well, my Lord Bishop, I do not come under any pretence of trying to persuade you to recant and renounce your loyalties…’
‘As you have done,’ Wren had snapped, pointedly, and Monck saw the wearying excoriation that had borne down upon the prisoner during his long imprisonment. He had turned the rebuke aside as gently as was in his power. Wren had been kind to him when he had occupied an adjacent cell and Monck was not a man to forget a kindness.
‘Come, my Lord Bishop, you well know from our lengthy discussions in this place that I place duty to my country above everything.’
‘’Twas some time past,’ Wren had riposted.
‘Aye, and time has worked its worst upon us both. Thou art testy and I am distempered…’
‘You are sick?’
‘Compromised. I am not minded to serve again.’
He had gone on to tell Wren of the trials he had suffered thanks to the spotted-fever. He made no appeal for sympathy; that was not to be expected of the old soldier. He simply explained the state of his health. The confession of physical weakness had roused Wren’s concern, not just for Monck, but for himself.
‘I am sorry to hear of such a disabling infirmity,’ Wren had said. ‘Thou art the only man of standing who might help me in mine own situation.’ He gestured at his surroundings. ‘You smile…’
‘Aye, I should not and I do not mock thee, but it is more comfortable that half the camps and bivouacs I have enjoyed since first I went out from this place.’
‘Ah, and when you went the wench went with you. It took some time for us to find another washer-woman half as diligent.’
‘That is because Anne was something more than a common washer-woman,’ Monck said quickly.
Wren was unmoved by this and went on: ‘Do you wish to make your confession, for I hear that you have shamelessly broken the Seventh Commandment with her?’
Monck laughed. ‘There are those who would cheerfully see me hang for it, my Lord Bishop, but ’tis a minor peccadillo and I purpose to marry her.’
‘I suppose I could grant you absolution on such a promise if ’twere on oath.’
Monck rose and Wren recognised again the physical presence of the man. He went to the door and shouted for the turn-key before addressing Wren. ‘You know my opinion of oaths,’ he said, and a moment later Wren was alone again in his cell.
Thinking of the visit Monk rather regretted he had made it. He had presumed rather too familiarly upon their former friendship. Two or so years had not been kind to Wren and he was probably right; in all likelihood he would indeed die in The Tower.
Monck set the recollection aside, rubbing his calves as the dull ache reminded him of his own tribulations. The one element of luck that had thus far attended his career, his lack of wounds in battle, seemed set at nought by the perversity of chronic ailment. But what annoyed him most, and sounded too peevish to communicate even to Wren, was that the spotted-fever had robbed him of his own laurels. True, Parliament had voted him a substantial grant, but it was nothing compared to that lavished on Oliver’s darling, John Lambert.
Perhaps such a loss of perquisites entitled a man used to such disappointments to soak himself in wine just-the-once, he thought, turning again to his encounter with Ned Conway. And perhaps, despite his misgivings, he might not have let too much slip to Conway. Anyhow, God knew he was utterly fed-up with this fruitless, idle, good-for-nothing waiting – and for what? No news. No news at all. He should be gone, he thought with a sudden resolution, into the West Country where Anne, bless her lonely but constant heart, was waiting for him. Or off into Ireland where he must needs see what disorder had been wrought in the land-grants Parliament had reluctantly given him for an earlier campaign than that in Scotland. Anywhere was better that London. What he had set in train in London was simply not working, for he would have heard something long since.
There was the other matter, too. He must put-up his sword. It was time for George Monck the soldier to overcome the wretched and inadequate motions of George Monck the lover. He dismissed the rumours of increasing difficulties with the Dutch which were most likely to lead to war; to the Devil with that! George Monck had other fish to fry. His admission to Conway that he intended to marry was quite true, whomsoever Ned thought of as Monck’s intended, but it was Anne to whom he had plighted his troth months ago with a handfasting, and it was with Anne that he had been living as openly as they dared in a land where adultery risked the gallows. There, that was the rub; Anne had – or had had – a husband. And the question of which of these alternatives prevailed was the reason why Monck languished so uncharacteristically supine in a Westminster tavern. No-one knew whether the brutal Ratsford – who had abandoned Anne some four years earlier after robbing her of her life’s savings – was alive or dead. All his enquiries had come to nothing.
In a characteristically decisive move Monck rose, went to the door and called out for the maid. When the girl came he ordered the table cleared and her mistress sent for. When Mistress Franks appeared, puffing from the tap-room, obsequious and as eager-to-please as any woman should be who quartered a General Officer in the Commonwealth Army under her roof, he ordered her to compound his account.
‘I intend leaving tomorrow,’ he said, ‘and thank you for your many kindnesses to me.’
‘It is always a pleasure, sir, to have so distinguished a personage lodging in my house,’ she said bobbing away.
Monck smiled at her. ‘Come Mistress Franks,’ he said in his most winning tone of voice with its soft, attractive West-Country burr, ‘but you sound like one of the Members of the Parliament House who frequent your premises all-too-often.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, making Monck grin the more. ‘I hope the weather improves; ’tis no season to be travelling sir.’
He bit off the riposte that he was a soldier and was not used to the luxury of choosing when he should march, temporising that it might moderate by the morning.
‘Perhaps,’ she said, withdrawing.
Monck turned from the closed door and began to gather up his papers and books, stuffing them into the battered portmanteau that stood at the foot of the bed. The shutters rattled again with an ominous intensity, and he heard the howl of the gale. At least he did not have to venture out tonight, he thought to himself, as he completed packing his most personal effects. Ten minutes later he blew out the candles and betook himself to bed.
No more than twenty-minutes had passed before he heard his name called; the tone was insistent. Mistress Franks stood in the open doorway with a rush dip and Monck sensed something amiss.
‘What is it? Is there a fire?’
‘No, sir, but a man who insists upon my disturbing you.’
‘Does he by God!’ Monck stared at the woman a moment, then realised this was no tomfoolery. ‘Very well. Give me a moment, then send him in… Wait, do you light my candles, I have packed my tinder-box.’ Waiting until she had done his bidding, Monck threw off the bedding and grabbed his robe. A moment later a sodden, thin visaged man stood dripping before him as Mistress Franks waited curiously.
For a moment Monck did not recognise him and had to be prompted as the man took off his hat, its brim spilling its contents on the floor-boards. ‘Wragg, General Monck, Mr Humphrey’s confidential clerk…’
‘Mistress Franks, a glass of toddy for this poor fellow. Come, sit down Mr Wragg… Surely some alarum must have occurred that you must…’ Monck broke off, staring at the shivering clerk.
‘Mr Humphrey argued, sir,’ Wragg began, ‘that as I could reach you before midnight and t
hat you had yourself insisted most emphatically, sir, most emphatically if I might say so sir, that the moment we learned anything about, er, about the personal and confidential matter you had honoured us and entrusted us with, then you required immediate notice. Immediate notice, sir. Hence, sir, my reason for disturbing you…’ here the loquacious Wragg gestured towards Monck’s dishabille, ‘at this hour. I trust this is congruent with your wishes.’
‘If you have brought me some intelligence, Mr Wragg, then it is most congruent,’ Monck responded eagerly, watching as the clerk leant down and began to undo the wet leather satchel he had placed on the floor beside his chair. At this point Mistress Franks reappeared with two glasses of steaming rum-toddy.
‘I did not mean…’ Monck began as she handed one to him, but shook his head and smiled. ‘No matter…’ He could visualise the augmentation of his account thanks to the unannounced visit of Mr Wragg. He only hoped that the news the soaking messenger brought him was what he had so longed for. It might be quite otherwise, as this late intrusion suggested.
‘Thank you Mr Wragg.’ Monck took the missive from Wragg’s outstretched hand. While Wragg fell to the consumption of his pint of toddy, Monck gingerly broke the seal, angled the letter towards the candles and began to read, ignoring Humphrey’s pompous superscription for which, it crossed his mind, he would also doubtless pay heavily.
Sir,
I am pleased to inform you that, after extensive and assiduous enquiries pursued with the utmost and most industrious diligence, we have at last secured both intelligence of the party for whom you previously enquired but, by further a pursuit of your Excellency’s objective, have to hand this very evening an affidavit to the effect that the man Ratsford succumbed to a visitation of the plague in Smyrna some thirteen months since…
Monck read no further, but looked up sharply at Wragg. ‘You have the affidavit?’ he enquired shortly, his tone expectant.
Sword of State: The Remarkable Story of George Monck Page 19